The high from his boardroom gambit lasted precisely until Leo stepped back onto the training pitch. The memory of David's cold, suspicious eyes was a sobering splash of reality. He had bought himself time, but he had also painted a massive target on his back. Now, every move he made would be scrutinized, not just for incompetence, but for strangeness.
The team's warm-up was a tense, silent affair. The players had heard the rumors, seen the footage. Their glances were no longer just curious or pitying; they were wary. Vance's smirk was permanently etched onto his face, a silent promise of future humiliation.
Coach Thorpe blew his whistle. "Two-touch possession. Four grids. No excuses. Move!"
Leo's heart hammered against his ribs. Two-touch. It was a fundamental drill, but at this level, it was played at a blistering pace. Control, pass, move. A perfect test of the fragile connection he'd discovered.
The first ball came to him, a rocket from Alvaro. Leo's mind screamed, his old instincts urging him to kick it away in panic. But he forced himself to breathe, to seek that quiet place.
Be a conduit. Not a controller.
He let his body react.
**< < [Synaptic Echo: One-Touch Pass - Activated] >> **
His foot met the ball with a crisp, clean thwack. It wasn't a graceful, weighted pass; it was a sharp, functional transfer to the winger on his left. Accurate, but devoid of Kaelan's usual creative flair. It was the pass of a competent journeyman, not a genius.
It was enough. The drill continued.
For ten minutes, he was a machine. He didn't try to do anything spectacular. He received, he passed, he moved. The echoes came in flickers—a sudden, perfect trap of a high ball, a deft turn to escape a tight press from Vance. But they were inconsistent. A moment of brilliance would be immediately followed by a clumsy miscontrol that had him scrambling.
He was a radio trying to tune into a distant station, catching moments of perfect clarity amidst waves of static.
Vance, however, was a dedicated jamming signal. He hunted Leo, his tackles ferocious even in a non-contact drill, his presence a constant, aggressive pressure.
"Getting your mojo back, Valtieri?" Vance taunted after Leo managed to evade him with a surprisingly nimble pivot. "Or just getting lucky?"
The comment broke Leo's concentration. The next pass skidded off his shin.
"Focus, Kaelan!" Thorpe barked from the sideline, his arms crossed, his gaze analytical. He wasn't coaching; he was auditing.
The drill ended. Leo was drenched in sweat, his mind exhausted from the constant battle between his fear and the phantom skills. He had survived. He hadn't excelled, but he hadn't completely embarrassed himself. It was progress.
Then Thorpe dropped the bombshell.
"Right. Change of plans for the afternoon. The annual Children's Hospital charity event is today. Team photo ops, signing session, a small, friendly penalty shootout with the kids. Bus leaves in thirty. Look presentable."
A charity event. In public. With cameras. And a penalty shootout.
The fragile calm Leo had built shattered. A drill was one thing. A controlled, public performance was another. A penalty kick was the most psychologically intense moment in football. A solitary walk, the weight of expectation, the entire world watching one man versus one goalkeeper.
And he, Leo Mears, who had never taken a penalty under pressure in his life, was expected to do it as Kaelan Valtieri.
---
The hospital event was a kaleidoscope of noise, flashing lights, and hopeful, fragile faces. Leo moved through it in a daze, a smile plastered on his face that felt like a rictus grin. He signed autographs with Kaelan's flamboyant signature, a motion he'd practiced frantically in the car. He posed for pictures, his arm around children who looked at him with pure, unadulterated hero-worship. It was the most vile thing he had ever done.
Then came the shootout. Set up on a small astroturf pitch in the hospital courtyard, with a miniature goal. The first-team players would take turns being the "friendly" goalkeeper for the kids.
It was all going fine, until Vance, with a crocodile smile, grabbed the goalkeeper gloves. "My turn. Let's make it fun for the little ones."
His eyes locked with Leo's. The challenge was unmistakable.
One of the children, a brave little girl with a bald head and a massive smile, missed her penalty, kicking the ball softly into Vance's hands. The defender laughed, a booming, performative sound for the cameras, and scooped her up onto his shoulders, playing the loveable giant.
Then he looked at Leo. "Come on, Kaelan! Show the kids how it's really done. Let's see the famous Valtieri penalty. For the cameras!"
A hundred phones were raised. The media, who had been covering the event, surged forward. Coaches, nurses, children—all eyes were on him. It was a trap, beautifully laid. A no-win situation. If he scored, it was what was expected. If he missed, as Vance was betting he would, he would be humiliated on a global stage, failing in front of sick children.
Thorpe and David watched from the sidelines, their expressions unreadable.
Leo's mouth went dry. He felt the phantom system in his mind glitch, numbers flickering erratically.
< < [Stress Levels: Critical] >>
**<< [System Overload Imminent] >> **
He picked up the ball. It felt like a cannonball. The walk to the penalty spot was the longest twelve yards of his life. The world narrowed to the ball in his hands, the small goal, and Vance's hulking, smirking form filling it.
He had no echo for this. No ghostly memory of a penalty routine. This was all him.
He placed the ball on the spot. His mind was a screaming void. He was going to fail. He was going to let everyone down. He was going to be exposed—
And then, a different voice cut through the panic. Not an echo of skill, but a memory of a feeling. The crushing weight of his own mediocrity. The despair of watching from the bench, game after game, knowing he would never be good enough. The sheer, unadulterated fear that had been his constant companion in his old life.
This was just another form of that fear. He'd lived with it his whole life. He knew how to function while terrified.
He blocked out the cameras. He blocked out Vance's face. He blocked out the children. He looked only at the ball.
He didn't think about technique. He didn't try to access Kaelan. He simply remembered the pure, selfish desire he'd always had on the pitch: the desperate, clawing need to not be a failure.
He took three steps back.
He ran.
His body moved on pure, adrenaline-fueled instinct. There was no grace, no finesse. It was a raw, powerful, desperate lunge.
He kicked the ball with every ounce of strength in this new, powerful body.
WHOOSH—BANG!
The sound was explosive. The ball became a white blur, a cannon shot that screamed past Vance's ear before the defender had even finished his theatrical, mocking dive. It smashed into the back of the net with such ferocity that the entire miniature goal shuddered and rattled on its frame.
For a second, there was absolute silence. The power of the shot had been shocking, visceral. It wasn't a penalty; it was an act of violence.
Then, the courtyard erupted. The children cheered, dazzled by the sheer power. The cameras flashed.
Vance slowly got to his feet, his smirk gone, replaced by a look of stunned, wary respect. That hadn't been the shot of a broken man. That had been the shot of a cornered animal.
Leo didn't celebrate. He just stood there, chest heaving, staring at the rippling net. He had done it. Not with Kaelan's skill, but with his own desperate will, channeled through Kaelan's body.
He looked over at the sidelines. David was smiling, a real, genuine smile of relief for the first time. The brand was safe. For now.
But Coach Thorpe wasn't looking at the net. He was looking at Leo. And his expression was one of deep, profound confusion. He clapped slowly, mechanically, his brow furrowed.
He had just witnessed a miracle. But it wasn't Kaelan Valtieri's miracle. Kaelan placed penalties with surgical precision into the top corner, with a cool, arrogant grace. What he had just seen was something else entirely. Something raw, powerful, and utterly unfamiliar.
As the crowd swarmed around him, Leo met Thorpe's gaze for a split second. And in that moment, he knew.
He had passed one test. But he had just failed another.
He hadn't proven he was Kaelan Valtieri.
He had proven he was someone else.